CHERUB: The James Adams Chronicles
by Durza II
Summary: The chronicles of James Adams, the best CHERUB agent ever. He has a shadowy past, and even from his first day it is clear he is very intelligent and talented. But who exactly is James, for no one knows much about his history, and what is his secret goal?
1. Chapter 1

The room was bare. No decorations, no trinkets, and no MTV posters. Although it was spring outside, with the sun shining brightly and the trees and flowers in blossom, it was cold and dark inside the room. It was more than a case of bad insulation. It was the totally militaristic and dispassionate set of the room that made it seem so. You could smell the rigid, hard and bare necessity of the room. The room had a small, metal bed in one corner, a wooden dresser with a mirror on top and a wooden chair next to the bed.

James currently occupied the bed. He was completely naked under the duvet. Any man of experience could have told you James was knocked out by some sort of tranquiliser. After a few seconds, James stirred, feeling groggy. He sat on the bed, but immediately regretted it as a wave of nausea attacked him. He waited until it had passed before trying to move again. The nausea attacked him, but this time it was less profound. He looked around the room gingerly, his neck stiff. He gave a grunt of dismissal; there was nothing revealing at all about the room. He stood up slowly, and headed for one of the two doors in the room. It opened up into a bathroom, which was just as well because James was dying for a piss.

After a minute, James came back into the room and went to the chair, where some clothes were piled. He grimaced as he thought of all the items he'd had in his possession. Grimly, he put on the new clothes. There was a pair of black combat trousers, an orange T-shirt with the logo CHERUB on it, a pair of white socks, a pair of white boxers and a pair of combat boots. The militaristic clothes surprised him, but it was the picture of an actual Cherub flying over a globe on the T-shirt that surprised him more; it didn't math with the rest of his attire. After he finished putting them on, he went to the dresser and checked out the contents of the drawers. All he found was a comb, a toothbrush and toothpaste and nail clippers. His mouth twitched at this run of good luck; he could have a crude weapon now.

Ten minutes later, James sat on the bed, thinking about how he had got here. The last thing he remembered was sitting in his room at the orphanage, checking the US stock exchange while Kyle, his roommate, was listening to his walkman. And from then on his memory was hazy and he couldn't place anything that had happened. He sighed.

"Tranquiliser mixed with a weak amnesiac." He shook his head. But who could have done this? Had he been finally located by his family? Or had his mother's captors come to finish the job they had started? What ever the truth, he knew there was no use sitting there wallowing. He had to take action and find out what was going on.

A bell went off, and James recognised it as the same monotonic ring that went off at his school. So he was at a school? Unlikely, he thought. He went to the door and walked into a corridor. There were many other kids dressed like he was, all chatting merrily and walking in the same direction.

"Hello," he said to a girl who looked thirteen. "Do you know where I am?"

"Sorry," the girl giggled. "Can't talk to orange." He frowned. So these shirts had some sort of significance?

"Hello," he said to another girl. This one looked fifteen. Maybe she'd be more mature. "Do you know where I am?"

"Can't talk to orange," she said in a hurried voice.

_Alright then_, thought James. He suddenly struck out with his right hand, striking a passing twelve year unconscious. Although everyone was looking, most of the kids kept on walking. It was only three other kids who stopped and looked at scene with a mixture of fear and wanting to stop it. James ignored all this and took off his orange shirt. He stripped the kid of his grey shirt and wore it instead.

"Now I'm not wearing orange," James said with a smile. "Mind telling me what's going on?" the three kids just looked at him, fear in their eyes. James put his foot at the kid's throat.

"Now," he added threateningly.

"Let the kid go," a voice said fro behind him. James obliged, and turned round to see who had spoken. It was a fourteen year old boy.

"And you are…?" asked James, tugging at his shirt. It was small.

"Norman. And you are?"

"James."

"Well, James, we don't encourage bullying here. Let the kids go." James didn't bother to stop the three kids as they carried off their friend.

"A noble concept, but I have no memory of coming here, and I don't even know where here is. If my law isn't that rusty, this constitutes as kidnapping, and therefore I cannot be held responsible for anything I do while trying to escape. I tried the nice way, by asking, but apparently being nice isn't high on your morality list." Norman had been walking closer, and now a small crowd had been gathering around them.

"Listen, boy," Norman said menacingly, "there was no need to take it out on someone younger than you."

"Well, I would have taken it out on you, but you were too busy hiding behind your mum's skirt," James said. There was a round of oohs and ahhs as Norman stepped even closer. Suddenly another bell went off, and Norman waved James off.

"Go to the first floor. Mac will be waiting to see you. I have no time for little squirts like you."

"Hello James. I'm Doctor Terence McAfferty," said a man in a soft Scottish accent. "Welcome to CHERUB campus." James didn't reply.

"Well," the man said after a moment of silence, "what are your first impressions of us?"

"You are a very well funded orphanage," James said.

"Yes," Mac said. "We have six tennis courts, four swimming pools, an on-site school and a shooting range, among other things. Funny, but you haven't asked how you got here or why you are here." James merely shrugged.

"Well," Mac continued, "we brought you here because we think you would be a great addition to the campus. You are intelligent and fit and have an appetite for trouble." James raised an eyebrow. As an answer, Mac raised a manila folder.

"We have access to your file. I was particularly intrigued with the last police entry; you were accused of stealing–"

"False allegations," James said. "They had no evidence except CCTV footage which showed I was in the _vicinity_, but not actually stealing or running from the scene. It was a dodgy prosecution at best." Mac frowned, looking intently at the youth.

"And why would they come looking for you with such a 'dodgy prosecution' in the first place?" James shrugged.

"How am I supposed to know," he tried to say with an innocent smile, but his facial features wouldn't allow him.

"Very well, James. Moving on, we brought you here because we think you show promise and would like to invite you to join CHERUB."

"And the catch?" asked James.

"What makes you think there's a catch?"

"Oh, nothing. I guess you just drugged and brought me to a secret, top-notch campus where I will want for little out of the goodness of your own heart."

"Are you always so …"

"Pessimistic? Realistic? Yes, pretty much."

"Well, as you guessed, there is a catch. First, you must pass the entrance examination, and then, perhaps more unusual, you have to agree to work for the British Secret Service."

"Excuse me?" James asked, thinking the tranquiliser was still affecting him.

"Yes, you heard me correctly. CHERUB is part of the British Intelligence Service, and you must agree to work for them."

"Children as spies? Unusual idea, but I can see the merits."

"You don't have to decide now. You can take the examination, and then have a few days to think about it, if you pass. Here's a booklet with all the CHERUB information a recruit needs to know." Mac handed James a small, thick hard back booklet.

"Now, let's begin the exam," Mac said.

The first exam was a written exam. The time duration was an hour and a half. The exam included Maths, English, History and Science questions. James finished it in half an hour.

The second exam was to complete an obstacle course. James had two fifteen year old boys to help him out named Paul and Arif. At first James had thought that the obstacle course would be hard, but it turned out to be rather disappointing. He had to run to a wall and scale it, and then swing from the wall onto a net, which he had to crawl over without tipping over, then walk along a single long plank and not fall over, and then finally sprint along a straight track whilst avoiding the projectiles being fired at him. He managed to do all this and still keep up with Paul and Arif without breaking a sweat.

The third exam was to retrieve a brick from the bottom of the pool. This was difficult. James simply stood there for a minute, looking at the water, mesmerised by its blue lustre and the small waves running across it. He was afraid of water. Had been for the past two years. The memory of it still brought tears shame to his eyes. Two little kids who had tried to bully him on land had managed to restrain him long enough to throw him into the swimming pool at school. They had cuffed his hands and feet with plastic handcuffs, and in the time it took James to get free, his air supply had run out and he had fainted. The life guard had had to pump his lungs to remove the water and give him CPR.

Shaking that off, James took deep breaths and dived into the pool. He swam in perfect strokes to the bottom and grabbed the brick. It weighed a lot, but James managed to bring it to the surface with the no problem. But after he was on dry land, he simply sat at the edge of the pool, stroking the little eddies.

Nearing lunch time, he went to an office with Mac for the fourth exam. It was bare except for a desk with a pencil and a caged chicken on it.

"Do you like eating chicken, James?"

"Sure," James answered

"Do you want to eat this chicken?"

"It's alive," James pointed out, "

"Then kill this chicken James," he said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because people are paid to do this. Why would I want to kill a chicken?"

"Alright then," Mac said, pulling out his wallet. "I'll pay you to kill the chicken."

"Alright," James said, thinking this entire thing was some kind of joke.

Mac handed him a fifty pound note, and that's when James knew he was serious.

"You want me to kill the chicken?"

"I want you to kill the chicken," Mac affirmed.

"Fine," James said. He took the sharpened pencil from the desk and held it firmly in his right hand. He opened the cage and turned the clucking chicken to the side. Without hesitating, he plunged the pencil into the back of the chicken's head. The chicken shrieked and clucked and emptied its bowels quite violently for thirty seconds before collapsing dead.

It was lunch time, and Mac led James to the canteen. James had asked if he could shower and change back into his own clothes. Mac had agreed, much to James' delight. He was tired and stank terribly, even if he had been careful with the chicken. He now wore his Armani attire; shining black shoes, grey socks, long black cotton trousers, a synthetic crocodile belt and a light blue short sleeved shirt. James felt more comfortable in his own clothes now, more whole. He walked confidently into the canteen, even though everyone was staring at him. There was a bubble of anger and irritation when he saw the looks on most of their faces; it was always the same, no matter what he did. People always treated him the same, looked at him the same.

Mac showed James where the food and cutlery were, and then paid for James' lunch. He led James to a table by a window. There were quite a few people seated on it, including Norman and two of his friends.

"Sorry about earlier," James said. "I wasn't in my best mood." Norman waved him off. James betrayed no emotion, but inside he was seething. His anger always got the best of him.

"Well, James," said Mac, "the last exam is after lunch. I can now safely tell you how you did on the previous four. How do you think you did?"

"Alright, I hope."

"More than alright. You results are one of the best I have ever seen. You got full marks on the written exam. You completed the obstacle course without any help from Paul and Arif, and not once did you falter. The third exam was better than I had hoped. We know you are afraid of water, and the choice we expected you to make was to refuse. But you hung in there and completed the task. And how well do you think you did on the fourth exam?" By now everyone on the table was listening in, and a few from the surrounding tables.

"I killed the chicken," James said after swallowing a chunk of chicken. He paled, coming to his senses. He met Mac's eyes, asking the question silently.

"No, that's not the chicken you killed. The exam was a test of your moral courage. If you had refused outright, you would have passed. If you had killed the chicken outright, you would have passed. But you allowed me to bully you into killing the chicken, so I had to give you a low pass. If–"

"Bah," James said, interrupting.

"Bah?" asked Mac.

"There is no such thing as moral courage."

"Is that so?"

"If I was a thug, what would you call killing for no known reason?"

"Are we still talking about the chicken?" Mac asked. James just looked at him. "Unlawful," Mac said after a moment.

"And if I was a poor, hungry and generally good-natured tramp?"

"It would still be unlawful."

"But you would less severe, even lenient on me, wouldn't you," asked James.

"I guess so," Mac said, sitting forward, now intrigued where James was going with this.

"And if I was a successful 'fed-with-a-silver-spoon' businessman?"

"I would severely punish you," Mac said, getting into the swing of the game.

"And if I was a twelve year old boy who'd been paid to kill?" There was a hush as Mac thought of an answer to that one.

"Frankly I don't know what I'd do," Mac said after a moment.

"Doesn't matter," James said, tucking into his last piece of chicken. "It wouldn't make a difference. The person –or chicken- is still dead. It doesn't matter who killed it or why or how or when or where. The person's dead, and no amount of explanation or excuses can change that."

"But it was a test of moral courage," Mac said triumphantly. "You were supposed to use your own heart to tell whether or not you should do it."

"And I did. I had no interest in killing the chicken whatsoever, but when you offered me money, I changed my mind. I am going to use that fifty quid to spoil my sister the next time I see her because I haven't seen her for two months. My step-dad hates me and knowing that I can't talk to my little sister is how he generally gets his rocks off. So now you decide; I have a very good reason for what I did. It's not selfish and it's for a good cause, but to achieve it I had to kill an innocent chicken that didn't need to die. Sure you might have killed it, but I wouldn't have known, and therefore my conscience wouldn't be so heavy." Mac just looked at him for a long time. James ignored him and attacked his pudding with a vengeance.

"That's pretty cold," Mac said after a while.

"That's life," James said.

After lunch, James and Mac went to the dojo. It was newly built, and most of it was made from treated bamboo that shone in the sunlight.

"The dojo was donated by some Japanese businessmen after a CHERUB agent uncovered a fraud scam. The medical companies saved millions."

"Of course," James said.

"How do you mean?" asked Mac

"The Japanese have a deep sense of honour, even now after decades have passed since their defeat. They were forced to change their community, their society, their way of life by the Americans, but some things cannot be forced."

"You seem to be quite knowledgeable," Mac remarked. A stillness went into James suddenly. He looked away, his body tense for a moment.

"I read a lot," he said in a toneless voice. Mac didn't push the matter.

James and Mac went into the dojo, stopping only to remove their shoes and socks. Mac took James to the last room on the right. There were twelve students in it. Most of them were sixteen and seventeen, but there were there were two twelve year olds and three fourteen year olds. There was also an old Japanese woman screaming criticisms in a mixture of English and Japanese to the practising pairs.

"Madame," Mac said respectfully. "I would like you to find a sparring partner for our potential recruit here." The woman gave a scream in Japanese. All the students instantly stopped and sat down in a row. The analytical part of James' brain noted that there was some kind of order to how they sat. Since it wasn't height or age, he concluded it must be ability. The Japanese woman looked him over, and then looked back at Mac.

"You have never brought anyone here to be tested. What can you hope will be accomplished by bringing this boy here? To show him how weak he is, perhaps?"

Mac laughed. "No, nothing like that. I just have a good feeling about this one."

The woman shrugged. "Suit yourself. This students hit harder than any others. They might severely injure this boy." James decided this was the moment to step in.

"I can take anything you dole out, baa-chan," James said in perfect Japanese. The woman was surprised, and then smiled.

"Is that right, young man?" she replied likewise.

"I am confident my sensei taught me enough to match your… er … top class." The barb worked. The woman suddenly looked angry.

"Do you doubt my teaching abilities, or the ability of my students?"

"No, I never said such a thing! I am sure you are an excellent teacher, and that your students are quite capable." But his voice had just enough sarcasm to be detected by the teacher.

"Bruce! Teach this young boy some manners!"

"Excuse me, sensei?" asked a twelve year old boy. It was only at this time that the Madame realised she had ordered her student in Japanese. She took a deep breath to calm herself down, then looked at James with a smile.

"You're good, boy. Bruce, you shall be this boy's sparring partner."

"Of course, sensei." Bruce was tall for his age, but James was taller.

James and Bruce stood three metres apart and bowed to each other. Bruce went into the ready stance, while James simply stood, his body relaxed.

"There are no rules. There shall be five bouts. A bout may be won if an opponent submits or is knocked unconscious. A contestant may withdraw from the match if he thinks he can't go on." These instructions were given by Mac. Both boys nodded.

"Fight!" shouted the Madame.

Bruce attacked. He made a quick sprint toward James.

"Your attack form is too angular," James said. Bruce's punches and kicks were fast, but James dodged them with ease. This was one of the first things he has been taught; _if you want to win, don't get hit_. He had been taught to use all his wits to avoid any blows that came his way until he was good at it.

A kick was aimed at James' feet, but James jumped into the air. He saw the other foot come an instant later to kick him in the face. _Interested move_, James thought. He simply tilted his head to the side, watching the foot sail past him. After that, James came with a rushing torrent of kicks and punches, each more ragged than the next.

"Stand and fight, damn you!" he screamed, his chest heaving.

"Certainly not. Did you see that last punch? It could have knocked me unconscious!"

"So are you going to run like a coward the entire match?"

"No."

"Then when are you going to fight me?"

"I am fighting you," James said in a tone used only on five year olds.

"I mean retaliate!"

"So you want some body contact then?"

"Stop twisting my words!"

"Very well."

When Bruce attacked this time, James' body tensed as it prepared to do battle. When the punch came, he lowered his centre of gravity and grabbed the arm. Using Bruce's own momentum against him, James spun in a circle and threw Bruce at the wall. Bruce slumped, his head aching and his back bruised.

"So that's why you dodged my attacks, to see the way I fought."

"Nothing so dramatic, no! I was simply taught if you don't get hit, you don't lose. You used an immense amount of energy attacking, I used minimal energy dodging." Bruce laughed.

"I am going to enjoy this match. How about we make it interesting? We have one single bout, and whichever one of us wins, the other has to withdraw?"

"Fine by me," said James. He got into his own ready position, which was strange to everyone there, except the Madame.

"Let's begin," said James.


	2. Chapter 2

The room was dark

There was the musty smell associated with mould and damp wafting around the room, too thick to be dispelled by the slowly whirling ceiling fan. Shadows flitted around the room, caused by the one single source of light in the room –a tall taper candle. The candle, despite how small it was compared to the darkness in the room, shone brightly and unwaveringly, casting a warm glow. It was a strange sensation, feeling the cold spikes of the darkness warring with the soft, gentle blanket of the candle. There was a small statue of Buddha inside a simple, but beautiful, wooden shrine. The Buddha was made from pure gold, but these days nobody but a veteran and certified jeweler or businessman could tell the difference. The look of absolute serenity and peace on the statue's face was absolutely enrapturing; it was hard to believe that there could be such a being in existence, totally untouched by the treachery and violence of the modern world. Perhaps that was why Buddhists had their humble abodes in nature and away from civilization.

James closed his eyes and took three deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. All his life –ever since he was three, that is– he had laboured to achieve that moment of peace and serenity as depicted by the statues of Buddha. A measure of peace entered his body as he finished taking his deep breaths, as he finished clearing his _prana_.

He was garbed in traditional samurai clothes –the kimono shirt and trousers, all under a soft robe. He was sitting in the lotus position, something he had always been able to do naturally.

"You have done well," a voice said from the darkness. Despite himself, James couldn't help but tense, and a small, startled gasp escaped his lips; he hadn't heard anyone enter, and very few people could surprise James like that.

"I did what was expected of me," he said, still facing the statue of Buddha.

"So I heard." There was a trace of amusement in the voice. "Your plan worked perfectly." This time there was something like disbelief and haughtiness in the tone of voice.

"As I said it would," James said, not rising to the challenge.

There was a moment of silence, then: "When will stage two of the operation begin?" the voice asked.

"When the moment is ripe," James answered. Even through his closed eyes, James could see the bright light of the candle; he found this more fascinating than the conversation he was forced to have.

Venom entered the voice from the shadows. "Don't jerk around with us, kid," it said. "We have no time for games. We came to you because you could get the job done. We don't handle disappointment very well."

The threat was barely veiled, and James found contempt welling in his heart, which he forced down and expelled by taking more deep breaths. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and stared straight into those half open, serene eyes of Buddha. Instead of losing himself in those eyes, he focused on what the voice had said; _We_. James had known all along that there had to be some support behind this operation. This contact wasn't smart enough to be the head of something so delicate; he was too rash, too impatient and altogether too thuggish. But James had detected fear and hatred beneath the venom in the voice. After a few more seconds of deliberating, the probability that made the most sense was that the people behind this operation were more powerful than he had first anticipated. The voice was that of a hardened operative. That much was clear to James, even though they had never met face to face. And such a hardened person could not display such fear involuntarily unless he faced harsh retribution.

"These things cannot be rushed, as you well know. Infiltrations are risky operations. If we rush this, we will be detected and swiftly dispatched. If we linger, we will be detected and swiftly dispatched. And yet there is no such thing as a perfect infiltration; we have to do this as carefully as possible. This is not a playground we are planning to take over; it a secure, British Intelligence compound, and every person currently on that campus is an obstacle that has to be overcome. We must tread carefully; _Careful_ is the watchword. You should know all this. You were a field operative at one time, yes?"

James felt a tingle of satisfaction as the voice gasped; he had hit a nerve. The voice hadn't expected him to know anything at all about such operations, let alone about himself.

After a few second, the voice said; "Nevertheless, you are not giving me a specific time frame. Things have to be planned accordingly."

"Very well," James said. "This operation is on hold for the next three and a half months."

"Three and a half months!" the voice exploded. "That is unacceptable! We have many–"

"Quiet," James hissed. After a moment, he continued. "The one thing that an infiltration operation demands is that the exfiltration be smooth and invisible. I have to think of myself; will I survive another day in this country if CCTV cameras and the people on campus all see me brazenly carry out our goal? No. I have to blend in; the head of campus already has an eye on me, for reasons I have yet to find out. There is a three months training course I have to partake in if I am to be eligible for missions, as every child there is eager for. Blending in, man! I must not behave like a foreign object. Anyway, this is a long operation. You must have anticipated setbacks, and this is one setback that cannot be helped."

The response was long in coming, but finally, the voice said; "You said there is a three month course you must undertake, and yet you ask for us to cease operations for three _and a half months_."

"Of course. I have to actually undertake missions and mingle with the other children. As I said, I have to _blend in_."

"You are well trained." There was something akin to respect in the voice.

An hour later, James emerged from the basement of the dojo.

The conversation had left him rattled. Did he really want to do this? It would be breaking the law in so many contexts, and this time, it wouldn't be the police, but British Intelligence he would be dealing with. A mistake and he could kiss freedom goodbye … and his life.

He picked up a whistling sound, a sound only produced by a blade flying through the air, and a moment later he saw movement in the corner of his eye. He leaned back and watched a small knife fly through where his head had been a moment before. He continued with the motion –leaning back –and, using his hands to pivot whilst he was upside down, he performed a backward spin, now standing up facing the direction the knife had come from. He was now facing his assailant.

For the next twenty minutes, his assailant and he waved a dance between themselves; it was a dance of attack and defence. His assailant, all clad in black attire and wearing a balaclava, was a vision of the perfect martial artist –a mixture of skill, speed, strength and untamed rage. But James was not without his own attributes –he was quick, agile and stronger than he appeared. But despite all this, the assailant was clearly holding back.

James was finally defeated when the assailant tripped James, and while James rolled away from a blow he thought would blow, the assailant reached to the wall a foot away and plucked the knife he had thrown at the beginning of the fight. When James came back to his feet, he found seven inches of sharp, shining metal millimetres from his throat. He gulped.

For a minute, the room was still and both fighters didn't move, but finally James took a step back and bowed low. The assailant gave a sharp nod and sheathed his knife inside his clothes, away from view. The assailant bowed also.

The assailant removed his balaclava. Underneath, he didn't anything special. He was nondescript; with a face you saw once and immediately forgot. He was Oriental, but unlike normal Orientals, he was tall and muscular; he looked middle-aged, he had jet black hair, deep brown eyes, and a grave face.

The man didn't talk as he turned and walked toward the door. James followed without a word. They went into the corridor and up the stairs to the top floor. In the last room on the right, they stripped and sidled down into the depression on the floor that was full of steaming, hot water. James sighed, feeling the water wash over him with its soothing touch.

They sat there, floating in a surreal world of mist and sound, until finally James broke the silence.

"Sifu," he said.

"James," the man said. They sat in silence for another minute before James spoke again.

"I just had a meeting with my contact."

"I see." James gave his teacher a sidelong glance. It was at moments like these that his Sifu's lost its calm expression and gained a stony, impassive expression.

"I have no choice," James said with emotion. "I have to –" CRACK!

James hadn't seen the slap coming, and that made it all the more painful because he wasn't prepared for it. James did not flinch or retaliate or try to say anything at all; this was his Sifu, he knew best.

"Do not lie to me, James," the teacher said to the student. After a moment the Sifu added in a more normal tone, "Perhaps the next three months will serve to calm you down. This is not only about getting your mother back. This is about your duty, James. What will happen to Lauren if you are caught and arrested or if you die? She will be devastated. Do not think only of yourself. You say that you are doing this for Lauren, but is that the truth, James? Are you doing this for your sister or are you doing this for your own ends? Your own hunger will one day be your downfall if you continue like this. Perhaps CHERUB can serve to hammer some sense and responsibility into you." With that, the Sifu stood, wrapped himself in a towel and left.

James was flabbergasted. Sifu had been there when the kidnapping note had been delivered and the kidnappers had demanded James' cooperation. Sifu said that he did not want to be involved in James' mission, but if James wanted to go ahead and bargain with these shadowy men for his mother's freedom, then so be it. It was no secret that there was no love lost between James and his mother; it was Lauren's reaction that had convinced James to go along with the kidnappers' demand. At that very moment Lauren didn't even know what was going on, James had told her their mother was on holiday in some resort in middle Europe.

But as slid down onto the bottom of the hot pool to sooth the red welt across his cheek, he had to think again. No, he wasn't doing this for Lauren, and certainly not for his mother. Then why was he doing this? The answer popped into his head instantly; his father. No matter how much he tried to forget that man, his mind always came back to that matter, and with it cold, burning rage.

James opened his mouth in a soundless scream, letting all the air out from his lungs. How he hated his father. He would find him, and make him suffer. He would get his revenge.


End file.
